


A Bridge to Tomorrow

by Independence1776



Series: A Wild Tangle of Stones and Vines [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Celebrían never sails West, F/M, Gen, Rivendell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17602307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Independence1776/pseuds/Independence1776
Summary: Maglor rescues Celebrían before the orcs take her deep into their caves. Life in Imladris will never be the same.





	A Bridge to Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for SWG's Amnesty challenge using the Sitcom prompts "we need a distraction" and "dramatic reveal." It is the first story in this series, in which I'm attempting to write something for every SWG challenge this year.

Maglor tightened his grip on his small bow, drawing the bowstring back with his right hand. He ignored the shouts and clashing metal echoing weirdly among the rocks of the pass; his focus was on the small group of six orcs sneaking away from the attack with an unconscious woman on a stretcher. Once they passed behind the boulder he hid behind, he shot the rear guard, followed by the guard on the left. The two orcs carrying the stretcher bent down to put the stretcher on the ground, giving Maglor a clear shot of the other two guards. He was able to shoot the nearer stretcher orc before he had to drop his bow to unsheathe his sword to defend himself against the rush of the last orc.  
  
His sword blocked the blow with enough force to have the orc look at Maglor in surprise. “Elf,” he snarled but was unable to say anything further when the sweep of Maglor’s sword decapitated him. The head bounced off a rock and landed next to the body. Maglor spun around, looking for other orcs retreating from the battle further along the Caradhras trail. But there were none-- and the sounds had died down as well.  
  
Maglor retrieved his bow, unstrung it, and strapped it back in place. He left his sword unsheathed in case of attack. He looked at the bodies, the stench of blood and bowels loosened in death an unpleasant odor, but the light breeze was blowing the smell away. And the woman on the stretcher…  
  
Whoever she was, he had the unpleasant suspicion the orcs had targeted her, having the main force of the attack as a distraction. A suicidal one, from the orcs’ perspective. But she hadn’t stirred even with the noise he’d made fighting the orcs. He knelt down, sword on the ground at his side.  
  
A visibly broken forearm, but no other wounds, even though the collar of her shirt was damp with liquid. He lifted both her her eyelids. Both of her pupils were blown, so it was either a severe brain bleed or something else. He carefully felt her head, noting and ignoring her pointed ear. There were no signs of injury, not even a hint of blood. But skull fractures didn’t always have external signs… He sighed. He’d never been good at healing, even with music. And not having to deal with things like this on a routine basis anymore… It had been long-years since he’d last needed to use them and he was out of practice. But a snatch of a song, a brief resonance-- there was nothing wrong with the woman’s head.  
  
Maglor shook his head and sighed. Poison, then, or at least a potion to keep her unconscious while the orcs spirited her away from her group. He couldn’t think of another reason her collar would be wet with something that wasn’t blood. He stood and began searching the orcs. Hopefully one of them would still have a flask with it. He searched the rear guard first, and then the two side guards, before moving to the stretcher bearers. None of them had anything more than water bags.  
  
When he knelt down next to the lead orc, he smiled. A small flask, apparently of Dwarven make-- were the orcs hiding in the mines of Moria?-- was tied on his belt. Maglor untied the leather thong and shook it. Half full. He twisted off the cap and brought it to his nose, but he couldn’t place the smell. So he carefully stuck his little finger down the opening and tilted the bottle so the liquid inside barely wetted the fingertip. He pulled it out, but the light of the full moon was not enough for him to see the color. He placed it carefully on his tongue.  
  
Bitter was the overwhelming taste and he fumbled for his water bottle to rinse his mouth out. But he was sure this was what they’d forced the woman to drink. He looked up just in time to see two Elves round the bend in the path, swords drawn. They stopped when they saw him.  
  
“Stand up!” one said in Sindarin and then repeated it in Westron.  
  
Maglor raised his hands and stood. The woman didn’t so much as twitch at the shout.  
  
“Did you kill the orcs?” the second one said, also in both languages.  
  
“I did,” Maglor said in Westron. “The woman will not wake. Apart from her broken arm, she isn’t injured.” He pointed to the small flask at his feet. “That container has the drug used on her to keep her asleep.”  
  
The first guard hurried to the woman’s side. “He’s right,” he said in Sindarin. Switching languages, he said to Maglor, “Bring that here.”  
  
Maglor lowered his hands, picked up both his sword and the flask and walked over to the guard kneeling. The first guard did exactly what Maglor had just finished doing. In Westron, he said, “We should set her arm now, while she won’t feel it.”  
  
The second guard said in Sindarin, “I’ll stand guard. You help.”  
  
The first guard said, “He doesn’t speak Sindarin--”  
  
She snorted. “Oh, yes he does. Don’t you, Maglor?”  
  
Maglor opened his mouth, closed it, glared down at his sword currently glinting with firelight that _did not exist_ , and knelt down. There were times he wished his father’s smithing had been just a little less magical. This was one of them.  
  
“What do you need me to do?” he said in Sindarin.  
  
The guard looked at him askance. “Hold her still.”  
  
A brief time later, her arm was set. Maglor unbuckled the belt around her waist and slid it out from underneath her. He used the sheath for a long knife and the belt to form a temporary splint. He sat back on his toes and looked down at the woman. She had barely twitched during the procedure.  
  
“I’ll leave as soon as I clean my sword,” he said quietly.  
  
The female guard said, “No, you’re staying with us. Clean your sword; we’ll search the orcs.”  
  
Maglor could easily have escaped, but it wouldn’t be worth the effort. The orcs could attack again. The group of Elves might well accept his temporary help until they reached safety. He did so and by the time he’d finished, the two guards had finished searching the orcs with nothing to show for it.  
  
The woman said, “You take her feet.”  
  
And that was the other reason they wanted him around: to help them bring the woman back to her group. A much safer prospect with three people than two.  
  
Maglor obediently followed the guards’ instructions and silently went with them to their camp. It was in chaos and another guard spotted them as they approached the ring of torches. Orc corpses were piled on one side of the ring and three Elven bodies lay on the opposite side. Quite a few people were walking injured. The guard shouted, “Who is he?”  
  
The woman said, “He killed the orcs who snuck Celebrían away. She’s alive but drugged.”  
  
Sheer force of will kept him from dropping the stretcher in shock. In the better light, he could see the resemblance to Galadriel.  
  
“That didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“Fëanorion.”  
  
The camp instantly went silent and then burst into noise. Maglor wanted to close his eyes and let the hubbub wash over him, but he couldn’t. When they reached the middle of the camp, he set the stretcher down and stood still with his hands clearly visible. “Come,” the female guard said. “We have a healer with us.”  
  
“I’m not injured,” he said.  
  
“Good,” she said. “One less thing we need to worry about.”  
  
The guard led him only a short distance away, to the guard in charge. “Lant, where can we use him?”  
  
He looked Maglor up and down. “Put your pack with the rest of the luggage. We’re hiring you--”  
  
“ _Hiring_?”  
  
Lant shrugged. “I assume money is something you can use.”  
  
“I don’t need payment to guard my son’s wife!”  
  
He blinked. “As you will. You’re on duty until someone relieves you. Hopefully that will be in the early hours before dawn, but I cannot guarantee it.” He pointed to another guard. “She’s your immediate supervisor. And then me if you can’t find her.”  
  
Lant walked over to that guard. The guard who’d brought Maglor to Lant pointed out the luggage pile and left him alone.  
  
They _all_ left him alone. That was more of a surprise than anything else had been this night. Maglor slipped out of the ring of torches and stood there, watching and listening to the night until yet another guard tapped him on the shoulder. “We’re leaving as soon as it’s light enough to see the path. Get some sleep while you can.”  
  
Maglor nodded and returned to the heart of the camp to unroll his bedroll and sleep while he could. He didn’t know where they were going, but wherever it was, it would be with all possible speed.  
  
  
  
  
The sun dawned directly in his eyes. He sat up, turning his head away from the light. The camp was clearly in the process of being dismantled around him. The woman-- Celebrían-- had vanished; the orc stretcher tossed outside of the camp onto the hillside. Maglor secured his bedroll to his pack and stood. Immediately, a woman who was not a guard spotted him and came over. “The latrine is behind the pile of boulders just outside of the camp. We don’t have a hot breakfast, though.”  
  
Maglor shrugged, thanked her, took care of business, and returned to the camp to be promptly told that Lady Celebrían wished to see him.  
  
So she’d woken. And it was of utterly no surprise that she did want to see him.  
  
He followed the directions to the knot of people standing at the opposite end of the camp, near the pile of orcs. When Celebrían spotted him, her arm in a sling, she said, “I owe you my thanks and my life. If you hadn’t been there…”  
  
Her voice trailed off, but none of them needed her to finish the sentence.  
  
Maglor carefully said, “You owe me nothing, Lady Celebrían.”  
  
Her eyebrows raised and she looked uncomfortably like her mother then. “Bullshit. Kinslayer or not, if you hadn’t acted, I would be dead or worse.” She glanced down the path. “We are returning to Imladris. Come with us.”  
  
“I--”  
  
One eyebrow raised that time. “It wasn’t a request.”  
  
Maglor knew better than to argue, despite every nerve in his body urging him to flee south. “I had already agreed to guard you until you reached your destination.”  
  
“Good,” she said. “Get something to eat from Heleg. We should be leaving shortly, after the Elven bodies have been covered with a cairn.”  
  
Maglor nodded and did the only thing he could do: retreated to eat breakfast.  


* * * * *

  
  
Elrond stood just inside the doors leading to the courtyard, trying not to fidget as the train of people crossed the narrow bridge. Too many of them were injured and all of them wore hoods against the drizzle. Yet Celebrían had returned home safely only a month after leaving. A troop Galadriel had sent from Lórien had met them less than two days from where Celebrían been attacked and escorted them home. A necessary escort, as it turned out; they’d been ambushed three more times, thankfully with no further Elven deaths. Celeborn had led the troop; Galadriel could not leave Lórien unguarded in case the orcs decided to try a two-pronged attack and leave Moria to attack the Elven realm, though she kept in nearly hourly contact with her daughter, husband, and son-in-law via Ósanwe-kenta.  
  
Celebrían ran up the three wide steps and into Elrond’s arms. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair. “I am glad to see you safe.”  
  
She stayed in his arms for a little longer than normal and pulled away as her father came up the steps. She glanced between them and said, “We need to talk about… the situation. But you may want to deal with Maglor first.”  
  
Celeborn grimaced. “He behaved perfectly well on the journey, Elrond. He rescued my daughter; I owe him at least a cessation of hostilities for that, as long as he is under your roof.” He looked down at his daughter as people began streaming into the house as the drizzle grew heavier. It was only a matter of time before it began to pour. “I’m wet enough. Do we need to drown ourselves as well?”  
  
She laughed and went into the house with her father. Elrond flipped his hood up and stepped outside, going to the hooded man standing at the far end of the courtyard, half a dozen guards loosely surrounding him, three each from Imladris and Lórien. Elrond sighed. Dealing with Maglor would be, as always, complicated.  
  
“Elrond.”  
  
“Father.” He glanced up at the sky and said, “Let’s get out of the rain.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“Give me your sword, if you wish. There’s a secluded bedroom you can stay in. You deserve at least a short time’s rest for saving my wife. Please don’t be stubborn and insist that you did your duty so you can leave now.”  
  
Maglor laughed and unbuckled his sword belt. “Faced with three pigheaded fools all telling me the same thing, I cannot help but give in.” He handed it to Elrond. “A rest would be a welcome change.”  
  
  
  
  
After showing Maglor to a bedroom in the attics, stowing Maglor’s sword in the armory, and arranging for a bath to be brought to him, Elrond went to the family wing find his wife. The heavy rain pelted the windows as he walked into their sitting room to find her curled up on her preferred seat in front of the fireplace. “Do you want me to light it?” he said, walking over and resting a hand on the chair back.  
  
She looked up and him and rose to her feet. “No, I was waiting for you.” She kissed him on the lips and stepped back, holding his hands in hers. “I told Father this and Maglor thought it as well-- you know some of it, thanks to Ósanwe-kenta-- but some things need to be told in person.” She swallowed. “They targeted _me_ , Elrond. Why attack a messenger? Sometimes things happen and they vanish, even Elves. But the lady of Imladris and the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn? That attacks here; it attacks Lórien; and, slightly more distantly; it attacks the Greenwood. Even Lindon and the Grey Havens would reel from my abduction and death. It is an act of war-- and it worries me what will follow.  
  
“The orcs attacked us thrice more, though I think more in retaliation than anything coordinated. They’d made their point even if they didn’t succeed in their original aim. The passes through the Misty Mountains are no longer safe. How many orcs live there now, in the tunnels we’d thought long abandoned? What else lives in them by invitation? Can we keep the passes safe? How can we remain in contact with the other realms? Ósanwe-kenta is useful but difficult for us as a long-term solution. But what about the Dwarves and the traders using the Road? How can we keep them safe? Even partnering with the Dúnedain to hunt the orcs may be of only limited use.”  
  
Elrond sighed. Celebrían was correct: this was the resumption of the long war. “I know,” he said. “A war council may indeed be necessary.”  
  
She sighed and released one of his hands to run through her loose hair. “I wish I had the luxury of a long soak in the tub with my husband, to ignore our responsibilities for a day or a week, to act as though this hadn’t occurred. But I don’t.”  
  
“Mmm… It seems to me that we can at least have that soak after supper.” He leaned forward to kiss her when Elladan rapped hard once on the door with his usual knock and opened it. “Mother,” he breathed out; Elrohir and Arwen were just behind him. Elrond stepped aside to let their children embrace her. Personal plans needed to wait. He caught Celebrían's eye and tilted his head at the door. When she nodded, he slipped out of the room. She was right-- at the very least, a preliminary conversation with Glorfindel and Celeborn would set the groundwork for a larger council with as many representatives from as many peoples as could attend.  
  
  
  
  
Glorfindel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You say that the orcs attacked from nowhere. That implies they are within Caradhras itself.”  
  
“More than implies,” Elrond said. “Whatever sedative they used on Celebrían was found in a Dwarven flask. Where else would it have come from?”  
  
Erestor and Ninniach, Elrond’s steward, stared down at the map spread on the table. Black and brown stones marked each orc attack; a red stone marked Moria. “Have any of the Dwarves mentioned an ambush on a Dwarven caravan?” Ninniach said. “Maybe this attack was not the first.”  
  
“It was the first,” Celeborn said. “Why waste the element of surprise on what the Enemy would consider a low-value target?”  
  
“They intended to abduct me,” Celebrían said from the doorway. “We must assume this was planned. Maybe it was the Necromancer behind it, but I would not definitively say so. The orcs hate us and that is motivation enough.”  
  
“What are we to do?” Celeborn said as Celebrían shut the door and came to stand at his side. “Any travel over the Mountains now requires large companies to ensure our safety. I would not risk the journey with less than the company I brought from Lórien.”  
  
“We need to warn the Dúnedain and the Dwarves,” Ninniach said, her voice firm. “The next Dwarven caravan will be here in a week; a messenger needs to be sent to the Angle.”  
  
“We also need to fight the orcs wherever we can find them. If they have a foothold in the mountains, they may range far.” Glorfindel shook his head. “This was done in secret. We may have won this battle, but we are ill-prepared to fight this war.”  
  
“We need a larger council, not just the White,” Elrond said. Everyone turned to look at him. “Invite Thranduil or one of his children, the leadership of the Dúnedain, and any Dwarves that are willing to come. The wizards will show up if they will.”  
  
“Curunír may not; he may feel it too risky for him to risk traveling the length of the Mountains with unknown numbers of orcs between us and him. But Mithrandir has a nose for trouble,” Celebrían said. “He’ll be here.”  
  
“When shall it be?”  
  
“Midsummer,” Elrond said. “It is enough time between now and then.”  
  
“Barely,” Ninniach said. “As long as the invitations are sent within the week.”  
  
Elrond nodded. “They will be.”  
  
“We have one more thing to discuss,” Celeborn said, folding his arms.  
  
Elrond sighed and leaned back in his seat. Glorfindel gave Elrond a sidelong look. “Is Maglor armed?”  
  
“His sword is locked in the armory, with the rest of the bespelled weaponry. I let him keep his knife.”  
  
“Does he even need that?” Celeborn said.  
  
“I will not leave him defenseless.”  
  
“His music is weapon enough.”  
  
“Not if he’s woken at night by an intruder,” Glorfindel said.  
  
Ninniach said, “How dangerous is he, truly? And how much of this is a grudge?”  
  
Elrond and Celeborn met each others’ eyes and looked away at the same moment. “Honestly,” Celeborn said, “he is less dangerous now than when the Oath held him. He is sane; I watched and conversed with him enough on the journey here, both verbally and mentally. I would not have let him come to Imladris if I thought him a threat.”  
  
“But he is an experienced fighter,” Elrond said, “and a murderer. No matter my personal history with him, I have not forgotten that.”  
  
“Then maybe he’s here for a reason,” Celebrían said. Everyone stared at her. “He knows orcs. He led an army in Beleriand-- and he was a spy for Gil-galad during the Last Alliance. Maybe we should end his exile. Maybe he has a place here.”  
  
Celeborn snorted. “A Kinslayer should have no place.” Glorfindel looked just as happy as Celeborn did, but Erestor and Ninniach both looked thoughtful.  
  
Elrond quietly said, “It’s been six thousand years.”  
  
“He is a diplomatic danger,” Glorfindel said. “How pleased do you think Thranduil and his people will be to learn you offered Maglor a home?”  
  
“They won’t be,” Erestor said. “But I think, given the situation, that sending Maglor alone into the wilderness would be folly. He has knowledge and experience, both of which are needed, regardless of the knowledge everyone else here has.”  
  
“I will not put him in charge of any division,” Elrond said. “ _That_ is a responsibility he would have to earn. And Glorfindel would have the final say.”  
  
Celeborn nodded. “At least you have some sense.” He uncrossed his arms. “What would you have him do, then?”  
  
“Training sessions, at the very least. I would not arm him beyond wooden practice swords.” Elrond rubbed his forehead. “You spent two weeks with him. Truly, what do you believe him capable of?”  
  
Celeborn said, “He is unused to people and believes he deserves permanent exile. He may not accept an offer to stay.”  
  
“He will,” Celebrían said. “I saw the expression on his face when he spotted Imladris.”  
  
Glorfindel sighed. “Ninniach and I will evaluate him. We will move forward from there. And have a healer who is not yourself examine him. A life alone on the road is no easy thing.”  
  
“I will,” he said.  
  
“You sound as if you’ve decided,” Ninniach said.  
  
Elrond nodded and said wryly, “As if you expected any other outcome.”  
  
“Elrond, this is a diplomatic nightmare,” Glorfindel said. “He is a Kinslayer. The people of Imladris will follow your wishes, though he may never have a comfortable existence here. But Greenwood and Lórien? You risk much to protect a person some wish dead.”  
  
“Gil-galad--”  
  
“Gil-galad was High King of the Noldor,” Celeborn said. “You refused the crown. And most never knew Maglor spied for him. Regardless of that, what he did to the Elves should ensure he never have a home among us again.” He sighed. “But I see I will not change your mind. The House of Finwë is entirely too stubborn.”  
  
Elrond crooked a smile. “I’d rather blame Lúthien for it.”  
  
That set the room laughing, breaking the tension. “Fine,” Celeborn said. “But _you_ tell Thranduil. By Ósanwe-kenta. By the end of the week.”  
  
“If Maglor decides to remain,” Erestor said. “Celeborn may be right; he may leave.”  
  
“That is up to him,” Elrond said as the bell rang for supper. “And that is a sign to end this discussion.”  
  
“For now,” Celeborn muttered, quietly enough that Elrond pretended not to hear it.  
  
Celebrían waited for Elrond and slipped an arm about his waist as they walked down the hallway. He asked, “What do you think, truly?”  
  
Her gaze unfocused as she thought. “Having him here is discomforting; I will not deny that. But… it has been six thousand years. Should his punishment end? Are we even the ones to say it should be so? Despite my questions, I stand by what I said: let his exile end, at least here.” Her gaze refocused and turned her head slightly to glance at him. “What do you think, ignoring your emotions about him?”  
  
“That this will be a diplomatic nightmare but that it will be worth it.”  
  
“I hope so,” she said as they entered the dining hall. “Because we cannot afford to stand against the orcs alone.”  
  
  
  
  
After escorting everyone to the Hall of Fire for the post-welcome feast celebration, Celebrían and Elrond slipped out of the Hall. She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll start the bath. Bring a bottle of wine?”  
  
He smiled and she headed in the direction of their rooms. Elrond went into the main kitchen, where the head cook saw him enter and came over. “If you’re here for a tray for Maglor, Lindir already took one up to him.”  
  
Elrond’s lips twitched. “Why does that surprise me more than it should? At least it explains why Lindir wasn’t at the feast.”  
  
He laughed. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”  
  
“Only a bottle of wine.”  
  
The cook waved over the butler and Elrond swiftly had a vintage to bring to the bath. But first he needed to talk with Maglor.  
  
He met Lindir at the bottom of the attic stairs and raised an eyebrow at him. Lindir paused. “Did I offend?”  
  
“Hardly. Did you enjoy your conversation with him?”  
  
Lindir shrugged a shoulder, nearly upsetting the silverware on the tray. “I did, but speaking about technical aspects of music is usually so.”  
  
“They’ll miss you in the Hall of Fire.”  
  
“Of course they will,” he said with an eye roll and trotted off down the hall.  
  
Elrond climbed the stairs and knocked on the third door on the left before the attic storage proper. There were six small bedrooms up here, generally used now only when space was tight. There were times couples had lived in these rooms… but the Elves were leaving Middle-earth and the rooms had been empty for years. Now even more Elves would sail West, having no desire to continue fighting the never-ending battle or to put their families in danger. He knocked on the door.  
  
“Enter,” Maglor said.  
  
Elrond came in and shut the door behind him. Maglor lay on the wide bed placed under the curtainless small window at the back of the room. A doorless wardrobe stood to the left of the foot of the bed, leaving just enough space to open the bedroom door, and a desk to the immediate right of the doorway. There was a small, square bedside table at the head of the bed. Maglor’s pack and boots rested on the hardwood floor underneath it, out of the way. Elrond put the bottle of wine down on the desk.  
  
Maglor sat up, brushing his hair out of his face. “Did you come to tell me my fate or to bring me a bottle of wine?”  
  
Elrond opened his mouth and closed it, suddenly unsure of how to deal with Maglor. The last time he’d seen him was at the Last Alliance and there had been very little time to talk. He’d disappeared after the Elven armies left Mordor with barely a word of farewell. He’d sent an albatross with a song tied to its leg for the wedding, but hadn’t shown up himself. “The wine is for Celebrían and me,” he eventually said. “Did you enjoy your conversation with Lindir?”  
  
“Once he overcame his shyness about talking with a musician he’d long admired.” He sighed. “Cut to the point, Elrond. How long am I permitted to stay?”  
  
“As long as you wish.”  
  
Maglor gaped at him. “Have you lost your mind? Celeborn-- _Thranduil_ \-- they’ll hardly speak to you.”  
  
“It was Celebrían's idea. She thinks we’ll need all the help we can find to deal with the orcs. You are too valuable to wander alone in the wilderness.”  
  
“She may well be correct. But why would you offer me sanctuary here? I know what I am.”  
  
“So do I,” said Elrond. “So do we all. You are an Oathtaker, a Kinslayer, the last remnant of the House of Fëanor on these shores. You are also a bard, a singer of some renown even now, and my father despite everything.”  
  
“That did not answer why.”  
  
“Because six thousand years of exile is long enough. We know you will never be allowed to sail, but while Imladris exists, you may consider it your home.”  
  
“If I choose to leave?”  
  
“Then you may do so. We will not keep you here unwillingly.”  
  
Maglor nodded slowly. “And if I choose to remain?”  
  
“Glorfindel and Ninniach-- my steward-- will speak with you. You _will_ see a healer. I may insist on the latter even if you do wish to leave,” Elrond added thoughtfully.  
  
Maglor snorted. “Then what?”  
  
“We aren’t quite sure yet. Training exercises, most likely.”  
  
He nodded. “People will not be happy about that.”  
  
“I know,” Elrond said. “There may be other tasks or roles to fill.”  
  
“Let me think about it, Elrond. I am not used to people, much less answering to anyone but myself.” He rubbed his forehead. “At the very least, I will remain here until the end of the season. You do deserve that much from me.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Maglor smiled. “Go and be with your wife. She’s probably wondering where you are.”  
  
Elrond smiled back, grabbed the wine bottle, and left the attic. When he reached their rooms, he quietly opened the door to hear Celebrían singing to herself in the bathroom. He grinned and uncorked the wine before walking in. Celebrían had left two glasses on the counter, so he poured the wine into them and then handed them to his wife, who had half-risen to reach them, water streaming off her. She rested them on the flat edge of the tub, lay back, and watched him as he shucked off his clothes and slipped into the hot water to join her.  


* * * * *

  
  
Maglor blew out the lamp secured to the wall above the desk and sat down on his bed to stare out at the rain-fed darkness. Dusk had lowered swiftly, so the little he could see was due to the lamplight and firelight shining out the windows of the lower floors of the House. Faint music and good cheer trickled up from the Hall of Fire and whoever was odd enough to willingly be outside in a rainstorm.  
  
Maybe for those who had become used to proper shelter, it wouldn’t be so bad. But he’d spent far too long wandering. And now that exile may well be rescinded in one land. He held no illusions about Greenwood or Lórien, though maybe Lindon would follow Elrond and Celebrían's example. But Círdan would likely not encourage him, though he had kept a distant and somewhat kind eye on Maglor during the multitude of years he’d lived just south of Lindon’s borders on the shore.  
  
Maybe Imladris would be, in the end, a temporary home. Elrond would sail eventually along with his wife and children. It was the nature of the Elves, at least those descended in part from those who had left Cuiviénen. Aman slumbered in their blood. Once Elrond left, whenever that would be, he would have no reason to remain here.  
  
But did an uncertain future truly mean that he had to forego years, likely many long-years, of shelter? Security and safety he could not guarantee, not yet. But Elrond would not let anything unfortunate happen to him and it seemed Celebrían was accepting enough, especially if it had been _her_ idea for him to remain here permanently. But… he should not be shocked by that. Even he had heard of the Last (or First) Homely House open to all travelers and those seeking advice and lore. Elrond had taken his tragedies and made hope and help from them. Why would he have married someone who had a problem with that?  
  
Maybe that was why Elrond agreed with his wife: Maglor may not deserve a home, but deserve had nothing to do with need.  
  
Maglor rubbed the scar on his right hand and stood up. He crept down the stairs to use the shared toilet on the floor below his and then returned to his room. _His_ room, he’d mentally labeled it. Not a guest room, not a spare room. His room, as if he lived there. He glanced around it, dim in the darkness. He knew how battered the wooden furniture was; that he was all but shut away in the attic like all undesirable or ugly but still useful items. But his seclusion was also a refuge. He hadn’t lived with people for more than a month or two at a time for long-years and he did not want to face the acrimony and hatred and derision many held for him.  
  
Was _that_ worth living here?  
  
He sat down on the bed after he changed into the nightshirt that had been on the bed when Elrond showed him into the room. The room had been prepared for him, a fact which astounded him and which he should have realized would happen when he’d agreed to travel to Imladris and learned that Celebrían and Celeborn were in regular mental contact with Elrond the entire journey here. It showed remaining in Imladris meant a home, regular meals, and at least one person who clearly cared for him despite everything. And he could always change his mind.  
  
Yes, he would stay. He would tell Elrond and Celebrían come morning, rather than disturb them at a moment when he knew he would be unwelcome.


End file.
